


Happy Birthday

by fade_into_the_dusk_with_me



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Birthdays, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I wrote this a while ago, and no - its just the one. not 'birthdays', and. as usual, but like. make it miserable, i was sad. can you tell??, im so sorry, scully in pain, that. thats it, these tags arent helping anyone. what am i doing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fade_into_the_dusk_with_me/pseuds/fade_into_the_dusk_with_me
Summary: (posted for 24 hours. i think.havent decide. leave me alone) - EDIT: I had planned to put this up temporarily. But people were so nice, & I couldn't be bothered, so it just sort of stuck around 🤷 (I'm explaining that so you can make sense of the summary & the notes sections 🥰) :can you believe i just deleted all the info about this? im typing in the dark & was like 'hm yeah sure, i can touch type, i can hit that symbol. yeah. thats where it is right? right.' and then pOof. all gone. so THAT was fun. and i cant remember what i wrote here. or even what key i was reaching for when i -yknow- got RID of everything. 😑 sO this is only up temporarily, for... reasons. i cant be bothered trying to explain. i dont need to anyway, so im just gonna say that im 90% (ah! i was reaching for the percentage sign!! - proud of me?? i didnt do the same thing again!) but im gonna post it, log off tumblr, write in my little notebook, and go to sleep. okay? okay. so i realise this belongs in the notes box but shh. i do what i want.
Relationships: Dana Scully & William | Jackson Van De Kamp, scully/mulder (mention), sorry. thats all there is in this one
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> um. i wanted to post something. the title sucks but ah well. and hey, thanks for bothering to click on this :) its only short, but yeah. i put words together *gasp* (i know- turns out i can do that sometimes!) -  
> also. i wrote this on my mobile google docs app, and it always makes me sad copying things from google docs onto here, because the layout has become so familiar, and then its always odd seeing it laid out on here. its stupid, but i hope people read this on their phones - maybe the layout is more like mine, on a smaller device. ignore me- i just like how compact fics look when on a mobile docs page. :)
> 
> edit:well. um. its been 24 hours. people have been so unexpectedly nice. its really sort of electrified my day, so thanks for that 🥰 the fate of this is undecided. we'll see. x

It had been too damn cold all week.

Scully's car was lined, thick, with frost and she had a headache like glass wedged into the corners of her skull.

She had felt bitter since before that, though. And an image comes to her, like from a fairytale - a woman walking round with a storm in glass, pent up inside her chest. The glass is shattered. The storm escapes. But still it pinches at her skin. Makes her shiver.

They hadn't talked in _too long,_ and it hadn't been that long. When she feels like this, she hates that. When she feels like this, she hates mostly everything.

 _Mostly_ . Sometimes she leaves her window open all night (a little naïve, she knows - she's done enough autopsies - worked on enough cases - to know how bad an idea this is). But she breathes easier with the night air, trickling through like ice and silver. And she thinks less with the noise of the traffic a little more apparent. _That's always a plus_.

When she was little she used to think how nice it would be to move as far out as possible - to live on a farm with nothing for miles and just exist.

She doubts she'd ever be able to sleep like that. The quiet would be a wedge in the door of her mind and it would slip in - _cancerous._ Of course, if she had a rhythm . . .

A heartbeat, perhaps.

It's stupid. She's getting old. She's tired, that's all. She rubs her eyes.

She tugs at the car door and melts away into the cold with the rumble of the engine.

~~~

Ok. It hadn't been the best day. It never was. Maybe she shouldn't've come in.

But really, what was her alternative? Staying at home would have her seeing things - ghosts: by definition, those who have moved on, but whose spirits remain.

She wonders if it's selfish, to claim a hold on his spirit. 

_After all, how much personality can a baby have anyway?_

This thought takes her by surprise with its ferocity. It winds her, for a moment. She stops in the corridor and stares up at the ceiling. 

Just - just for a bit.

Tears aren't warranted, she tells herself, but they taunt her - threatening from a ridge of mascara-smudged eyelashes.

No she couldn’t’ve stayed home. She'd start hearing things.

She'd start dreaming things, and she couldn't afford a faux-sick-day when she found herself the next morning, blank and cold and aching.

Yes, it was the best decision to come in. The _only_ decision, really.

Birthdays weren't a big deal anyway.

After all, who's to say whether he even knows his. Whether he even celebrates it. Whether this too has been taken from them. 

And she knows that that's cruel - she's being too harsh - she knows he's loved.

 _But_ \- 

But her eyes are burning and she's leaning against the wall, glaring at the floor because this _cannot_ be allowed to happen.

But she’s angry now - she's trying to shield her face because this was going to be difficult to brush off.

But she's not managed to move yet and the corridor is empty. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it's emptying - maybe people are avoiding her.

And maybe if she thinks too hard (she is doing) she can feel his weight against her shoulder - warm and real and safer than she has ever been. And she can smell him and she can hear his white noise - babbling and gurgling and all the sounds she took in as her norm.

She reaches up, fingers idly against the gold of her crucifix. She smiles. She can imagine him, looking up at her - stretching out, grasping for all these new things - all these wonderful things there were to learn about. All these wonderful scary things that Mummy would protect him from. And his eyes would be wide and focused as soft hands wrapped around the necklace - she can still feel his heart, through his little alien sleepsuits Mulder insisted on - through his skin, and hers. She imagines the ache of a long day, collapsing on the sofa with the most cautious of movements - the overwhelming peace of him. Just watching him. Breathing in sync.

Tears trickle down to meet the curve of her smile.

She pushes herself from the wall, wipes at her eyes, sniffs. She walks away. There are words on her tongue that flood her and crush her like the weight of all the world's storms. She lets them fall out in a whisper.

_Happy birthday, William._

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think, if ya want. no pressure. i dont mind. might delete this. that was the plan, actually.  
> ugh. but i spent all this time typing out all the tags and stuff. 😑 my rules suck. what ill do is probably delete the actual body of the fic - that way i can just *poof* it back if i fancy it. hehe. why am i feeling so chaotic? anyway, thanks for sticking with me - it was only short, but still. not my best, but i didnt hate it, so...  
> sorry scully, honey. love ya.  
> ugh. that layout- its so gappy. 😟


End file.
